It’s the story of Em, a young woman on the brink of embarking on her new life, who finds herself trapped in a dull English village by a government-imposed quarantine. It’s a story of “self-sacrifice, the power of human touch, and the need to act in the face of horror,” writes Catherine Linka, author of A Girl Called Fearless, who was kind enough to do an early review of the book.

And if you’d like to join me to celebrate the book’s release, I’m throwing a Publication Party at {pages}: a bookstore in Manhattan Beach on Tuesday, July 18th at 7pm. I’ll be signing, reading, and—most likely—eating cake. Hope to see you there.

Writers are often advised to write what they know. While I don’t have a lot of personal experience with reincarnated boyfriends, I do know a thing or two about Sheffield, the primary setting for A Strange Companion.

Sheffield is a city in the north of England and it’s also is my place of birth. I lived there until I was 18, when I went away to study in South Wales (where the opening of the book takes place.) Much of my family still lives in Sheffield. In fact, my mum still lives in the same house where I grew up, so I go back to visit at least once a year.

There are usually three groups of people outside the U.K. who know anything about Sheffield:

Ice skaters—because some of the highest quality professional blades are made in Sheffield

Football (soccer) fans—because the city has two famous teams: Sheffield Wednesday (my team) and Sheffield United (not my team)

Music fans—because Sheffield has produced Def Leppard, Joe Cocker, Arctic Monkeys, and The Human League

If you’re a movie fan, you should know that The Full Monty was filmed in Sheffield and if you like comedy, Sheffield produced both Eddie Izzard and Monty Python’s Michael Palin.

The city sits at the confluence of five rivers, making it the perfect spot for the forges that eventually made it famous as a steel city. That same industry, as Kat points out in the book, also made it a bombing target during World War II.

Despite all the industry, Sheffield is known as “the greenest city in Europe” and boasts 83 parks. When you read A Strange Companion, you’ll quickly learn, through Kat, that the city is surrounded by stunning countryside.

Here are few pictures of one of my favorite cities in the world (and I am completely unbiased in this opinion!)

Early in the writing of A Strange Companion, I realized that Gabe would die in a climbing accident. I had a vision of Kat and Gabe climbing together, of Kat scrambling ahead of him, showing off, and of Gabe falling. The details of that particular scene have changed over the various rewrites, but I always knew that Kat would be a climber.

The problem was, I knew very little about climbing. My nephew is an accomplished climber, but as such, he is always off hanging from rock faces around the world and therefore hard to pin down for research. So when a coworker mentioned that her daughter climbed, I asked if she’d be willing to (pardon the terrible pun) show me the ropes.

We met up at our climbing gym (video above) and she gave me a tour, while I struggled to remain standing upright on the heavily cushioned flooring. She explained the difference between bouldering and climbing, showed me the equipment, and demonstrated her technique. I asked endless questions, which she patiently answered and even shared some of the many ways an inexperienced climber might come to an unfortunate end. I appreciated her generosity and her candidness about how it feels to climb.

But to really understand Kat, I knew I had to try it for myself. So, the following week, I signed a waiver holding the gym blameless for anything untoward that might happen, rented a pair of shoes, and took to the wall.

Ordinarily, you’d climb with a partner, one of you climbing, the other “belaying”—holding the rope in case you fall. As I was alone, I had to use what’s called an autobelay. Were I to fall, this nifty device would engage, grabbing the rope, and lowering me safely to the ground.

One of the gym trainers explained how it works. He had me climb to a height just above his head and demonstrated the move.

I was not fine. I did not relax as instructed. I did not let go of the wall and consequently I ended up in a most ungraceful heap at his feet.

We tried it again and the next time I landed, but I still wasn’t entirely convinced.

Regardless, off I went, reaching for handholds, following the pre-set route, and making my way up the wall. It was exhilarating. I could see how people become addicted to the sport. It’s like a ballet, a combination of agility, grace, strength, and strategy. It’s also a bit of a rush. Before long, I found myself at the top of the wall, about 30 feet above the ground. With the autobelay, all I had to do was let go, fall backwards, and allow the mechanism to lower me down.

I glanced over my shoulder at the wall opposite, where a fellow climber reached the top of his route, leaned back, and sailed in a perfect arc to the ground. He made it look easy. I checked below me to make sure there was no one in my landing zone. I took a deep breath, and then…

…There is no frigging way I am jumping off this wall.

I couldn’t do it. I had visions of not jumping back with sufficient conviction and slamming against the wall, or getting my foot tangled in the rope and descending head first, or of the trusty autobelay malfunctioning and me plummeting to the ground in a tangled, broken heap.

So, I climbed back down the way I’d come up, and spent the remainder of my hour happily climbing up and down the same patch of wall and hoping nobody noticed.

But my research mission gave me a lot more than I had bargained for. I’d gone to learn how to climb, but I came out with a new understanding of my story. My fear and lack of trust changed the trajectory of my book and made me understand what I was really writing about: how important it is, in climbing, and in life, to have the courage to let go.

My friend and I signed up for a Flying Trapeze class. It felt daring and adventurous, and I imagined the thrill of flying through the air—with the greatest of ease, of course. I pictured lithe circus performers, their long graceful bodies making perfect arcs above the awestruck crowd, and I thought, “I want to do that.”

My reality was a tad different than my fantasy. I wasn’t prepared for how high the trapeze platform looks when you’re standing on the ground looking up at it, but I felt sure we’d be doing lots of on-the-ground practice before climbing the ladder and leaping into nothing.

Not so.

A brief explanation of procedure and I was off up the ladder. I climbed with confidence, not looking down, and hauled myself onto the platform.

From my vantage point I could see the whole of the Santa Monica pier, the rollercoaster rumbling by behind me, and the mountains in the distance. If I’d had the nerve to look down, I would have seen the tiny dots that were my friends looking up at me.

This is how trapeze works: You stand on the edge of an already narrow platform while the assistant pulls the bar to you. I had a safety harness around my waist, with a rope threaded through a pulley system, and the other end controlled by a spotter on the ground. Below is a net. Or rather, a long way below is a net.

Once I had the bar in both hands, the assistant held onto the back of my belt and instructed me to lean out and push my hips forward. The physical act of standing on a platform and leaning out over my center of gravity, looking down at a distant net and the ground below, goes against everything instinctual about self-preservation.

“I got you” said the assistant, and I had to trust that she did.

I leaned out and she leaned back and and we held our gravity-defying position until it was time for her to let go and for me to jump.

And jump I did.

The physics of trapeze is such that you are holding up your entire body weight for only a fraction of the swing, and at certain points you are almost weightless. The sensation was everything I’d imagined it would be.

But at some point you have to let you. Against all instinct of personal survival, you must drop backwards into a net and trust, yet again, that the spotter will help control your fall.

And then, when your blood stream is so pumped with adrenalin that your legs and arms shake, you have to execute a dignified somersault out of the net and back onto terra firma.

I succeeded (although not on the “dignity” count.)

On the next attempt, I did a knee swing, hanging upside down from my knees, and then moved on to a catch-and-release, the move you’ve no doubt seen, where the flyer swings, leaves her own trapeze and is caught mid-air by a chap hanging upside down from his trapeze. The move takes perfect timing and absolute trust.

I failed on all counts and I have the video to prove it.

By the end of the two-hour class I was completely exhausted, having run on adrenalin the whole time. My body was tired from the physical moves and battered from dropping over and over into the net. But my pride was surprisingly intact.

I didn’t make the catch and release, but I climbed, and I trusted, and ultimately, I jumped. And for that, I am quite proud of myself.

You can see my catch-and release attempt here. I thought it looked quite impressive, right up until the part where I missed!